A RADIOACTIVE CLOUD WOULD SWEEP ACROSS THE GLOBE
Everybody would die. That wouldnât happen unless the enemy was suicidal, or totally insane. Neither possibility was completely out of the question.
âHave there been demands from anybody?â Brognola inquired bluntly. âHamas, Al Qaeda, Iraq, China?â
Frowning deeply, the President said, âThankfully not yet, and we canât make any inquiries. That would only demonstrate that we have no idea who is behind all of this. And as long as the enemy is not sure of exactly what we know, theyâll be cautious. Afraid of our direct military retaliation. Even without nuclear weapons, America has a tremendous military. But if the enemy discovers the truthâ¦â
The President didnât finish the sentence. He didnât have to. The big Fed understood. Then the enemy would be free to do whatever it wanted. The only thing holding the terrorist states in check had always been the threat of nuclear strikes from the U.S. If the news of the covert disarmament was released, an incalculable wave of terrorist strikes would sweep the free world like a plague.
White Sands, New Mexico
In a muted rumble, a massive 757 jumbo jetliner streaked across the night sky, the aircraft rendered invisible by the sheer distance. Only a few scattered clouds marred the peaceful heavens, along with a dusting of twinkling stars, a few of them crawling steadily along, the motion betraying the fact they were actually telecommunications satellites.
On the ground, a warm desert breeze moaned among the tall cactus and scraggly Joshua trees, the gentle wind kicking up tiny dust devils that twirled about madly. Scattered among the low rock formations, crickets softly chirped looking for a mate.
Sipping at a cup of hot coffee, a bare-chested man wearing khaki shorts and hiking boots listened to the music of the desert night. The reddish light of the dying campfire cast his craggy features into harsh relief, making him appear older and more heavily scarred than usual. Military tattoos were clearly visible on both arms. Numerous shiny patches on his chest were circular scars, mementos from shrapnel and assorted bullets caught in a dozen firefights around the world. A holstered U.S. Army Colt .45 automatic pistol rested on his left hip, and a fully loaded M-16/M-203 combination assault rifle leaned against a nearby boulder. A fat 40 mm antipersonnel shell was tucked into the stubby grenade launcher.
Just a few yards away from the U.S. Army sergeant a small canvas tent was perched on the crest of the small hillock, the flap tightly zippered closed to keep out the scorpions and desert spiders. The sergeant knew that for some unknown reason the creatures loved to hide inside boots, and if a man wasnât careful pulling on his gear in the morning that would be a damn rude surprise.
Draining the cup, Sergeant Bruce Helford debated pouring another and decided it could do no harm. He was up for the night anyway. So far this tour of duty had been a cakewalk, and he had encountered nothing more dangerous than a couple of lost tourists looking for a gas station and some drunk college kids trying to sneak onto the military base for a thrill. Idiots.